Promises
by lanri
Summary: S2 AU. They all survive the crash. The fallout comes later.
1. Prologue

"Hey there, Dean."

Dean blinked, having trouble focusing on Sam. "S'mmy?"

If Dean knew his brother—and he did—Sam was close to tears. "Yeah, bro. That was too friggin' close, you hear me?"

"Mm," Dean mumbled. "Dad 'kay?"

"He's fine, you need to rest, alright? Just get better."

"Mmm." Dean wanted to ask Sam about the demon, about the bruises Sam was sporting, not to mention the way he looked terrified, but he was pulled back into the dark without permission.

The next time he woke up, Sam was sacked out in the chair next to him, feet on Dean's bed and head tilted back, mouth wide open. Dean really needed a spoon.

His father was also in the room, not looking at Dean, but looking at Sam. There was something strange in his eyes, but Dean couldn't figure it out. He shifted and got his dad's attention.

"Dean, glad to see you back with us."

At their dad's voice, Sam jerked awake, wincing and pulling an arm protectively around his middle.

"Y'okay Sammy?" Dean asked, voice hoarse.

"I'm good," Sam smiled tightly and sat up all the way. "How are you feeling?"

Dean did a self-evaluation, finding only the pleasant haze of drugs and a strange tightness on his insides and tug of skin from surgery.

"I . . . the demon," he realized. "The gun?"

"Not yet," Dad said. "We've got the Colt still, but the demon hasn't shown itself since the crash. Possibly because Sam threatened to use the last bullet."

At Dad's glare, Sam seemed to wilt further in his chair. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, and the tight way he was holding himself . . . Dean opened his mouth but was interrupted by the nurse entering and fussing over the equipment attached to him.

"I'm going to get back to research," his dad murmured. He left, briefly clasping Dean's shoulder.

Dean waited until the nurse left before turning his focus on Sam.

"Dude, are you alright?" he said, preempting Sam's open mouth to say something.

"Dean, seriously. Stop worrying, okay?" Sam's face had folded into lines of near-anger. "I swear, you were that close to . . ." Sam bit his lip and stared past Dean, eyes haunted. After the heart-issue and the faith healing, Dean had sworn he would never get that look on Sam's face again; he would take better care of himself, make sure he was there for Sam, stay alive.

Yeah, good job with that.

"Hey." Dean disentangled a hand from his bedding and weakly backhanded Sam's arm. "I want some food, bitch."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "You just woke up from a coma, Dean."

Dean smiled innocently. "Pie," he demanded.

Sam shook his head. "Hopeless," he muttered under his breath. "Go to sleep, Dean."

Dean grumbled for form, but shut his eyes with relief.

It wasn't surprising when he woke up to harsh angry whispers.

"I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment." Sam's voice was hard and brittle, the same tones in his voice that had been before Stanford. Only Dean couldn't intervene, unless he managed to open his drug-weighted eyes.

"Guh," he managed to grunt.

The voices stopped. Dean heard someone leave the room.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded like the ten year old who used to follow Dean around.

"Mmm. Cement." Dean finally forced his eyes open, Sam coming slowly into focus.

"Yeah, well drugs'll do that to you. That's what happens when you nearly get yourself killed." Sam's eyes were desperate with worry and pain, and Dean lifted his hand heavily and patted Sam's arm.

"Get me out of here?"

"Soon as you can sign the AMA papers with a steady hand," Sam said waspishly. "Go back to sleep."

"Don' argue with Dad." Dean mumbled. "Please."

A flash of shame and anger crossed Sam's face. "I'll do my best."

"Goo'boy." Dean slipped—for the millionth time—back into unconscious slumber.

* * *

 **A/N:** fjkdlsajfklds;ajfk i have been gone so long i'm sorry. No inspiration, no time. Adulting sucks. Sorry guys :(


	2. Chapter 1

"Here."

Dean glared at him. "I can walk."

"Liar." Sam shot back. "You are going to shelve your macho pride and get over it, or I will break both your legs. Got it?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but sighed. "No one else is around, right?"

"Bobby's picking up groceries, so no witnesses," Sam said. He slid an arm under Dean's knees and the other around his shoulders. "C'mon, I've got to carry you across the threshold." He smirked, and Dean groaned theatrically.

Dean noticed Sam's wince at his weight, but was too embarrassed about his own position to comment on that. Instead, he muttered, "I hate you."

"Uh huh," Sam grunted. "Man, you way as much as a whale shark."

"Whale shark?" Dean, despite the awkwardness and pain, managed to grin.

"It's a big shark," Sam angled the two of them through the door, accidentally hitting Dean's foot against the doorframe. Dean let a soft sound of pain slip past his defenses, and Sam cringed.

"Sorry, sorry. I'll get your drugs, take deep breaths, okay, just . . ."

"Sam," Dean said abruptly. "I am about to hit you. And that would hurt. Shut up."

Sam—the moron—flushed. "Um, sorry."

"If I had a nickel," Dean sighed. "Just put me on the couch."

Sam frowned. "Bed would be more comfortable." Dean felt how Sam's arms were trembling.

"No TV in there," Dean said succinctly.

Sam rolled his eyes, but acquiesced, lowering Dean to the couch gently.

"Dude, I'm not made of glass." Dean slapped him on the arm. "Get me some food, bitch."

Sam grinned at him, a sappy fondness on his face. Dean made sure to keep his "I'm your big brother and you'll do what I say" face until Sam turned away. Only then did he let himself breathe through the pain and focus on grounding himself. It had been a near miss, and Dean was paying the price for it.

"Tomato soup?" Sam called out.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Dean returned through gritted teeth.

"You're due for meds, too. After they kick in we'll get you to the bathroom."

"Joy," Dean muttered. "Hey, where's Dad?"

From Dean's angle, he could just see Sam's back. So he caught the awkward tightening of muscles.

"I think he's out arranging to get the Impala back here," Sam said vaguely.

Dean groaned. "My baby."

His little brother came back into the room. He knelt by the couch, carefully handing the soup over to Dean. "Yeah, she isn't looking so hot," he told him.

Dean scowled at Sam before looking down at his soup. "That's the last time I let you drive her."

Instead of a sarcastic response, there was an uncharacteristic silence from his brother. Dean glanced up to see Sam's head ducked down, face twisted into a grimace.

"Hey. Sam. Man, I was just kidding."

Sam shot to his feet. "I, uh, I'm gonna get your meds."

* * *

It took Dean four days to graduate from lying around on the couch to hobbling around on crutches. It took another week until he was finally using a cane as support and he was able to work on the Impala.

Things were strangely. . . peaceful. Dad occasionally went out and got stinking drunk, Bobby groused about annoying Winchesters filling up his house, and Sam bugged Dean by constantly hounding him to take his meds and rest, but for all that, Dean had his family around him and they were all alive. All he needed was his baby back in business, and Dean could actually say, tentatively, that he was happy.

"You need any help?"

Sam hovered outside the Impala's door as Dean worked on a particularly stubborn screw.

"You, work on a car?" Dean asked incredulously.

Sam's shoulders hunched up around his ears and turned away. "Forget it," he muttered.

"Dude, that wasn't a no," Dean called after him.

Sam took a tentative step back towards Dean. "So I can help?"

"Not sure why you would want to, but I could use some muscle." Dean pointed at the roof. "Think you can get that dent out?"

Sam squared his shoulders. Like he was trying to measure up for Dean. Dean didn't like the thought, and summarily destroyed it.

"I got it." Sam went into the backseat, grabbing a mallet. Dean waited for a moment, but a systematic hammering started up and he shrugged. If Sam was hurting or upset about something, he would bitch about it to Dean. There was no need to worry yet.

"Dean?"

Their dad's voice rang out. Dean called out to let him know they were working on the Impala.

The hammering from the backseat went silent.

"Dean, come out here for a second."

Dean stifled a groan as he levered himself from the Impala's seat. "Yeah, Dad, what's up?"

Dad looked haggard, but better than when they had first come out of the hospital. "Where's your brother?"

Sam slunk out of the backseat, standing partially behind the busted door. "I'm right here." His expression was cagey.

"There's a hunt."

Instantly, Sam shouldered his way out so that he was standing in front of Dean.

"We aren't going on a hunt," he said. "Dean's still recovering."

"Hey." Dean pushed at his arm. "Relax, okay? I'm getting better."

"Sam's right." For once, their dad agreed with Sam, and it didn't make Dean happy. "You'll stay here, Dean. Your brother and I will take care of the hunt."

Dean raised an eyebrow at them. "You're telling me the two of you can get along enough to finish a hunt together?"

"I believe that's Sam's call," their dad said. There was a hint of a challenge in his voice.

"We'll be fine." Sam's voice was perfectly flat and neutral, and Dean didn't like it. As Dad turned to Bobby's house, Dean tugged at Sam's arm.

"Are you sure, Sammy?"

Sam's smile was dimple-less, but still, it was there. "What, all the hunts we did and you can't trust me to pull this one off?"

"No. I just don't trust you not to fight with Dad," Dean clarified.

"I'll be good. Promise." Sam narrowed his eyes. "As long as you promise to take it easy."

"You got a deal," Dean promised.

* * *

 **A/N:** I can't believe how many of you guys are still out there reading my stuff despite my long absence! Ahhhh I love all of you so much you guys are the greatest


	3. Chapter 2

Two hours after Dad and Sam had left, and Dean was ready to rip his hair out.

"Dean—" Bobby said.

Dean paced, ignoring the twinge in his abdomen. "It was stupid! Why'd I let them go off together, huh? They'll kill each other, or worse, get each other killed. I need to get out there."

"Not so fast, cowboy." Bobby's calloused hands pulled Dean up short. "You can't take down a mosquito right now, much less any big bad. You let your brother and father take care of this one."

Dean scowled at Bobby. "You never got along with my dad anyway," he accused, "why aren't you on my side?"

Bobby sighed. "My fight was with him a long time ago. You boys need a daddy, and even though I might not agree with the man, that doesn't mean I won't help. Now you, park yourself and stop fidgeting so much."

Dean grumbled, moving back to work on the Impala some more, ignoring the fiery pain from his belly. The best he could do was work on the car. And hope his family came back intact.

* * *

The rumble of his father's truck forced Dean up from his seat at the couch.

"Bobby!" he called out.

"I hear it, I hear it, you idjit. Hold your horses."

Dean hobbled out onto the porch just as they were getting out of the truck. Both there, both walking. Dean sagged in relief.

"Sam! Dad!"

Sam's shaggy head looked up. An awful bruise marred nearly half of his face. Dean swore, darting forward as fast as his injuries allowed.

"Hey, kiddo, hey, what happened?"

Sam's eyes darted to the side before focusing back on Dean. He deflected the query easily. "You feeling any better?"

Dean opened his mouth, but their dad interrupted.

"Sam, you need to clean the weapons."

"Yes sir."

Sam ducked around Dean, snagging the duffel and going inside the house before Dean could say anything else.

"Dean, how're you recovering?"

"Good, sir. How was the hunt?"

"Rakshasa," Dad told him. "Eats flesh, it could turn invisible. Quite the hunt, I'm sorry you missed it."

Dean nodded. "What happened to Sam?"

"Just got a little roughed up, nothing to worry about."

Dean didn't bother arguing as he followed his father inside. Sam was diligently taking apart the shotgun in the kitchen, Bobby plying him with coffee.

"C'mon, Sammy, you forced me to stay here, now tell me what I missed."

Sam shrugged. "Not much."

Dean sat down next to him, nudging him with his elbow. "Gimme more than that."

Sam grimaced, the swelling bruises of his face making the expression strange and hideous. "It looked like a clown," he said.

Dean bit back the urge to laugh and went for the sympathy card instead. "Sorry, man, you okay?"

Sam shrugged. "It's fine."

"And it punched you?"

Sam's eyes darted over to Dean. "Who said anything about punching?" he said quickly.

"Nothing at all," Dean said, deadpan. "Just the fat lip, the black eye, the cut cheek, the—"

"Leave it alone, Dean. Just got hit." Sam glowered at his shotgun, scrubbing it with the cloth vehemently.

"Touchy." Dean leaned back, surveying Sam. Well, there was no time like the present to spring the question. "You never said anything about what happened after the crash."

Sam stood, violently shoving his chair back. "Bathroom," he bit out.

"Well," Bobby said—Dean had forgotten he was there— "if that kid isn't hiding anything, then I'm a ballerina."

"I did not need that mental image." Dean rubbed a hand over his face, for once not feeling a strong pull of stitches at the movement. He was finally healing. "You get the feeling that the other shoe's gonna drop soon?"

"Yup." Bobby shoved a mug of coffee towards Dean. "You hang onto that brother of yours, Dean. He's close to cracking."

* * *

Sam seemed to mostly be avoiding Dean, once Dean began really paying attention. Sure, he would help out with the Impala or research for hunts, but whenever Dean tried to talk about anything other than hunting, the weather, or proper technique for putting together an engine, Sam had a million excuses ready for a quick escape. Dean hadn't forgotten their conversation in Chicago—Sam was planning to leave, after the demon. Currently, though, Sam seemed to be staying put; things were uncertain and the demon was still out there.

Also, Dad's constant presence also wasn't helping Sam's mood, Dean figured.

Dean chose to confront Sam while they were getting ready for bed, still sharing their old room with its sagging twin beds.

"Sam."

His little brother raised his shaggy head, turning so that his bed creaked. "What's up?"

"What happened in the hospital?"

Dean saw Sam go completely, utterly still.

"You know what happened," Sam said.

"No, I really don't." Dean sat up, sliding his legs out from under the blankets. "What happened after the crash?"

"I scared the demon off with the Colt, and then the guy called an ambulance. They took you and Dad into surgery, and then you took forever recuperating. That's all."

Dean stood up. "Yeah, try again, Sammy. You want to tell me what happened with you? You were in the driver's seat. Prime spot for getting hurt in an accident."

Sam sat up in his bed, scooting backwards to lean against the headboard. His voice was dull, tired. "Just some bruises. Nothing too bad."

"And in the hospital?"

"You were hurt. You . . . you nearly died."

"And you and Dad?" he asked. "It's not like you two get along usually, so when should I expect the explosion?"

"There won't be one." Sam's voice was suddenly vehement. "Everything is fine."

"Sure," Dean said skeptically.

He lay back down, watching Sam do the same.

"It was lying, Dean," Sam murmured.

Dean blinked. "What?" Leave it to Sam to sprout off in a completely different direction.

"The demon. When it said that stuff about me. And you. And Dad."

Dean hadn't even thought about it. Mostly because he didn't want to think about it. "Uh, no duh, genius," he deflected.

Sam turned away from Dean. "Goodnight."

"Night." Dean stared over at his mystery of a brother and mentally sighed. That had been a less than helpful breakthrough. Though apparently his little brother's guilt complex was big enough to encompass words a _demon_ had said. The things the demon had said seemed to be haunting both of them.

Dean forced himself to fall asleep. He had enough to worry about already without adding exhaustion to the list.

* * *

 **A/N:** Crazy crazy week. Glad I could get this posted, heh. Apologies for any mistakes.


	4. Chapter 3

"We appreciate your hospitality, Bobby."

"Yeah, well, couldn't let y'all be homeless during this storm."

Dean nudged his father. "Do we have everything?"

"Yeah." Dad clapped Bobby on the shoulder and turned to his truck. "You sure she'll drive?" he asked.

Dean puffed out his chest. "My baby'll stand up to anything, now."

"Alright. You keep an eye on her. Sam!"

Sam came out of the house weighed down with several books. Dean sniggered.

"You boys take care of yourselves," Bobby said. He was looking at Sam with particular concern, but Sam didn't even look at him.

"We will, Bobby," Dean spoke for them.

"Sam, ride with me."

Dean blinked, uncertainly. "Dad, why—"

Sam's head ducked down. "Okay." He folded himself into the truck without one complaint, leaving Dean standing next to the Impala with Bobby.

"As I said. You take care of yourselves. And each other." Bobby gave him a significant look and turned to go back into the house. The truck revved, and Dean got into the Impala before he was left behind. As he turned on some good ol' AC/DC, though, he was left wishing Sam was in the passenger seat, whining about the music.

* * *

The hunts came and went. They got them done faster, now that Dad was working with them.

Through it all, Sam never complained once. Never disagreed, even when Dad wiped out a vampire nest that was only killing cattle and swore they were not killing any people—to be honest, even Dean felt a little queasy about that one.

They kept going. Kept hunting, the Winchesters, riding together.

And Dean couldn't get why it felt so wrong.

* * *

One second Sam was quietly folding the laundry, the next he was falling to the floor, clutching his forehead and staring blankly ahead.

"Sammy!" Dean went down to his knees, feeling the thud reverberate through his bones. He wrapped an arm around Sam, keeping him from toppling over.

"Dean, what's going on?"

Dad always came in at the wrong moment. Dean ignored him, watching Sam's face intently. The moment Sam's eyes stopped tracking something only he could see, Dean was ready for his body to sag, pulling him up to his feet and depositing him gently on the bed.

"Easy, man, what'd you see?"

Sam's eyes focused on Dean, a moment of relief shining in them before his face tightened up, and he glanced at their dad, standing behind Dean.

"A hunt, um, I think it's a few states over."

"Let's figure this out," Dad said.

Dean glanced at him, frowning. "Sam needs a second."

"No, I'm fine." With the strength of a baby bird, Sam shoved ineffectually at Dean's arm. "Let me up."

"Make me." Dean glared at him. "When you can make me move, you can get up."

"Dean, let your brother up."

"No! I don't think so." Dean kept his hand on Sam's sternum, turning to face Dad. "You can go ahead and start researching it, but I'm staying with Sam until he gets his strength back."

Sam gave Dad the location reluctantly, the vibrations from his voice reverberating up Dean's arm. Dean waited patiently as their father left, and the motel door clicked behind him.

"Dean, why are you doing this?"

Dean stared at Sam. "Why? Because the other visions you've had left you in a whole lot of pain, barely able to function. Don't ask me to let you go on a hunt and kill yourself trying to prove to Dad you're a good son."

"I don't—"

Dean slid his hand a little to the right and frowned. He could feel Sam's ribs, far more prominently than he remembered. "Sam." He cut off anything Sam was about to argue. "Whatever's going on. You and Dad, the hunt, the thing with the demon . . . something's off, and you need to stop shutting me out."

There was something unreadable in Sam's eyes. "Dean, nothing's wrong. I'm doing what you wanted, I'm not fighting with Dad."

Dean growled, deep in his throat. "Yeah, well I don't care whether you fight with Dad, I care about you pushing yourself too far."

Sam wouldn't meet his eyes. Dean waited, but there was no more struggle, no fight. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, letting his grip on Sam go slack. "I wish you would talk to me again."

Sam said nothing.

* * *

 **A/N:** Super short chapter, but it would've been weird to keep going into the next section, heh. I don't think this story will come close to being the best I've ever written, but at the very least I can promise some decent h/c :D Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 4

Dean let it go on for far too long. Sam playing quiet good son, Dad being the drill sergeant. But as Dean poured Sam into bed, concussed from getting knocked on the head, enough was enough.

"Alright," he snarled. "Dad, you stay put."

Dad blinked at him. "Dean?"

"What is going on? I get it, you both want the demon dead, but when I woke up in that hospital, something changed, and so help me, one of you is telling me what's going on."

Sam—still woozy from the head injury—blinked up at Dean uncertainly. "Wha—" he mumbled. "Dean, nothing changed." He tugged a little at Dean's shirt, reminding Dean of when he was still waddling around in diapers.

"Shut up, Sam," he said, not unkindly. "Dad, your turn to share with the class."

Dad looked placidly at the two of them. "Dean, there's nothing to tell. Sam and I have come to an understanding about the hunt for the demon. That's all."

Dean stood, anger shivering through his bones. "I'm done being lied to," he spat. He was out the front door before he knew it.

* * *

Dean stumbled back into the room. The figure on the bed shifted a little. "Dean?"

"Saaaam." Dean grinned, squinting at his brother. "Hey."

"Dean, are you—are you drunk?"

Dean tried to nod, but only managed to half-throw himself onto the ground. Stupid balance.

He looked up to see Sam struggling to get out of his own bed. "Dude, you're hurt," Dean slurred.

"And you're drunk."

"Yeah."

Sam's face was momentarily illuminated by street lights as he passed by the motel window. Dean frowned. Sam's left eye was dark and puffy. Sam had been hit on the back of the head, he thought.

"Your eye." He uncoordinatedly tried to touch Sam's face, managing to poke Sam in the nose.

"Ow, Dean, stop it." His hand was batted away. "Got it from the hunt, you jerk."

"Oh." Dean managed to amble over to his bed without hurting Sam's leg. "You need to sleep."

"I will, as soon as you drink this water."

"Mmm. Got it." Dean frowned at Sam's eye, trying to remember why it was important. "You sleep too."

"I swear, you turn five years old when you're drunk." Sam patted his chest and moved to the other bed, a choked whimper escaping his lips as he clutched his head.

"Sammy!"

"It's fine, Dean."

Dean didn't like how Sam's voice was so bitter and weary. That wasn't good. That wasn't . . .

* * *

"Ugggghhhh."

"You want to keep it down, hangover boy?"

Dean spat into the toilet. "Hangover boy?"

Sam peeked around the edge of the bathroom door. "Would you prefer I sing very loudly?"

Dean glared at him. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

The motel door opened with a bang and Dean groaned again.

"What's going on here?"

"Dean has a headache."

"Dean," their dad barked. "Get out here before I drag you out."

"Dad, he's just—"

"Not another word, Sam."

Dean pulled himself up by the sink counter, dashing water on his face before he had to face Dad in one of his moods.

"Yessir," Dean managed. Dad had his arms across his chest, while Sam stood behind him uncertainly.

"What were you thinking, getting drunk like that?" he demanded.

Dean rubbed at his aching head. "I was thinking that since this whole family's screwed up, I should try to make myself fit in."

Dean was hoping for a reaction from Dad, but instead got a strange cowering flinch out of Sam. He blinked at his brother, but Dad interrupted before he could say anything.

"Really? That's a lousy excuse, and you do something like this again, and there will be consequences."

Dean was . . . weary. There was no other word for it. Sam's old arguments about their dad and the way he treated them seemed more real than they ever had before. "Like what, Dad? Look, I know we need to work as a team, but we're all adults, now, and whatever's going on isn't working."

Dean had sort of figured that any kind of punishment his dad might think about dishing out, he could handle. So when Dad said, solemnly, "fine," he wasn't expecting much.

He should have realized Dad would always outsmart him.

"Well, you can take time to figure out what it is you want, while Sam and I check out that hunt in Nebraska."

Dean felt his mouth physically drop. "What?"

Dad's eyes were cold and serious. "Dean, your head needs to be in the game. Who knows when the demon could strike again? You take a couple days and meet us at the Roadhouse."

Dean swallowed. "Where's that?"

"Sam'll text you the address."

"Dad," Sam said, reluctance dripping from his voice. He stumbled a little, and Dean remembered how hurt he was.

"Don't argue. Pack your things"

Sam dropped his head. "Yessir."

"Sam," Dean protested. His little brother didn't even look at him, shoving his clothes back into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Dean's gut tightened. "Sammy," he tried.

He finally met Dean's gaze. "Sorry, Dean," he mouthed.

"Sam!" Dad barked.

Dean watched in disbelief as his father and brother left, the truck's loud engine trumping Dean's final yell for Sam.

* * *

 **A/N:** it's funny, how as much as I'm a sam!girl, I'm more comfortable writing from Dean's perspective. Weird.

Anyway, hope you guys like this chapter! Thanks for sticking with :)


	6. Chapter 5

"Hit me."

"Kid, you've had enough."

Dean glared at the woman. "Yeah, well, I'm paying you, ain't I?"

"Well, suck it up, it's my bar, ain't it?" She slammed a mug down on the countertop. "Drink coffee instead."

"You're as bad as Sam," Dean muttered.

The woman paused. "Who's Sam?"

Dean didn't listen, focused on the heat from the coffee mug. "But not like he is now," he mourned. "Don't even know him anymore. Woke up and everything was different."

"Kid, what's your name?"

Dean blinked. "Dean Winchester."

The woman swore, and Dean was put on alert, hand going to the knife on his belt, despite his intoxication. "What?" he asked.

"John Winchester's son."

"Yeah," Dean said warily. "What's that to you?"

"Man got my husband killed." Her eyes were flint and steel. Dean braced himself for a fight. "Fine hunter, but not a great man."

Dean snorted. "That's the best description I've ever heard."

The woman relaxed a little. "He comin' here?"

"Supposedly." Dean un-tensed a little when it seemed that the woman wasn't going to flip out. "What's your name?"

"Ellen Harvelle."

Dean nodded, staring at his coffee.

"You boys in a bad way?"

Dean lifted one shoulder and let it drop. "Dunno what's going on with Sam and Dad. Hate being stuck in the middle."

"Hm. You staying someplace tonight?"

Dean looked up at her. "No."

"Stay in the back. I'll wake you up to help with chores in the morning."

Dean found himself herded into the back until he was lying on a cot and staring at the old wooden ceiling. He slid his cell phone out, punching in Sam's number before he could stop himself.

It rang four times before Sam picked up. "Hello?"

"Sammy."

There was a pause. "One sec."

Dean could barely hear a door closing.

"What's up?"

"You guys done with the hunt yet?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, we finished it." Sam's voice was hesitant. "Dean, you, uh, you okay?"

"Well." The alcohol he'd consumed took away his filter—not that he really had filters. "I'd be okay if I wasn't pissed at being dropped off like a stupid child."

"Dean . . ." Dean could hear Sam huff out a breath. "Look, when you were hurt, it really shook Dad. Losing the demon, getting possessed, I think it's messed with his head."

"And you're find with going along with that?" Dean asked incredulously. "From the kid who ran off to Stanford without any warning?"

Sam's voice became cold. "Yeah, we can't all make up for our mistakes."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not what I meant."

"Whatever, Dean. We'll be there by tomorrow morning."

The line clicked. Sam had hung up on him. Dean cursed and threw his phone somewhere in the darkened room. He deliberately did not listen to the part of him that whispered that Sam's voice had been just a shade higher pitch than usual—a sure sign that he was hurting. If the little bitch wouldn't 'fess up, then Dean had no reason to worry about it.

Still . . . Dean wasn't able to fall asleep for hours.

* * *

If looks could kill, John Winchester would be dead on the ground. Dean hovered in the awkward mid-ground between Ellen and his dad, while Sam edged out from behind. Dean cast a perfunctory glance over his brother, not missing the ginger hold on his side—still with the busted ribs—and the slight hobble—a new twisted ankle.

"I don't recall inviting you back here," Ellen said coolly.

"Job comes before grudges," Dad responded, equally frigid. "Singer sent us your way."

Ellen sniffed. Dean saw how her eyes caught on Sam and softened a little before hardening again. "Research is in the back with Ash. You can talk to him, Winchester. Your boys are welcome to have a drink in the meantime."

Dad grunted and stomped off. Dean sidled over to Sam, punching him in the arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"That was for hanging up on me." Dean's next move was to hike up Sam's shirts, ignoring Sam's protests and embarrassed flush.

"Dude, seriously?"

"Checking your ribs." Dean swallowed—not at the bruises, those weren't so bad—but at the thinness of Sam's frame. Kid wasn't taking care of himself.

"You boys want breakfast?"

Sam batted away Dean's hands and readjusted his shirts. "We're fine, thanks," he said blandly.

"Dude, free food. What have I taught you, huh?" Dean bullied Sam onto a bar stool, trying to signal Ellen with his eyes. He didn't want to know what his expression looked like, judging from the sympathy on her face. She went back into the kitchen, leaving Dean to openly look at Sam.

"How'd you get hurt?" he asked.

Sam shrugged. "It was a ghost, tossed me into a tree, you know the drill."

"And your ankle?"

"Dragged me."

Dean didn't know when Sam had gotten so good at lying. He wasn't quite good enough, though.

Ellen plopped down two full plates of eggs in front of them. "Dig in. Not like Jo'll eat any of this. I swear, for a hunter's kid that girl loves sugary cereal."

For the first time since the accident, Dean felt a real connection when he caught Sam's eye; both of them grinned.

"Who's Jo?" Sam asked politely.

"My daughter. She was at a friend's last night, she'll head in later this morning, if you boys are still around."

Dean saw Sam open his mouth to continue polite conversation, and preemptively stopped him by poking the side of his face. "Eat, Sammy," he demanded.

Sam gave him a bitch face, but obliged him by taking a bite. Dean watched him for a while before eating himself.

"Boys, let's hit the road."

Sam sprang up like he'd been electrocuted. Dean's reflexes were fast, though, and he caught Sam's shoulder in a vice-like grip and shoved him back down onto his stool.

"We're almost done eating," he said.

Dad grunted, eyes sharp on Sam. "I'll be out near the car."

"Dean, c'mon, I'm not hungry," Sam protested.

"I don't think so, bean pole. Eat your breakfast."

Ellen handed them both cups of coffee. "Listen to your brother," she told Sam.

Dean preened, grinning at Sam's scowl.

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry I haven't been able to keep up with messaging everyone back! A couple of you seem a little frustrated you don't know what's going on and why Sam's sticking with everything going on; hopefully it'll just keep you guys coming back to find out, rather than make you quit reading! Answers will come :)


	7. Chapter 6

Now that Dean was finally awake to the problems in his family, he noticed more than he ever had before. Dad was pretty much the same as usual, except that where his smiles were rare before, they were nonexistent now; where he was strict before, he was harsh now.

Most of this was directed at Sam, he found.

"Did you clean those guns?"

Sam shrank under their father's glare. "I was just about to, I—"

"No excuses." Their dad threw the bag at him. "Get to work." He stormed out, obviously going to a bar. Dean watched silently as Sam opened the duffel, carefully taking out each gun. The weight he had lost recently was startlingly apparent in the motel's lamp light, face looking almost gaunt. Dean scowled.

"I'm feeling crazy," he said suddenly. "Let's go to Vegas."

Sam didn't look up. "We have a hunt, soon."

"Dad can handle it, can't he?" Dean demanded. The fervor in his voice was enough to Sam to look up, furrow between his eyes.

"Technically, yeah, but—"

"But nothing. Dude, if you don't go with me, I'm going to tie you up and take me with you."

Sam's eyes were tight. "Um, Dad won't be happy."

"Screw him." Dean grabbed their bags. "We're going."

Dean knew he wasn't seeing things when he caught the spark of life in his brother's eye for the first time in far too long. He managed to ferry his brother out the door and into the Impala without too much trouble. When his cell rang a few hours later, "Dad" flashing on the screen, he flipped it open without a care, ignoring Sam cringing on the seat next to him.

"Hello?"

"Where the hell are you two?"

"Me and Sammy are taking a little trip to Vegas. We'll catch you later."

"What? You can't just—"

Dean snapped the phone shut. Sam stared at him.

"Dean," he said softly. "What are you doing?"

"I'm tired of it, Sam." Dean stared out at the open road. Once appealing, once a herald of the good ol' fight, him and Sam and his dad against the world. "What's the point of it?"

Sam frowned. "Point of what?"

Dean gestured vaguely. "The hunt. This relentless, never-ending hunt."

"You've changed your tune," Sam said softly.

"About the time that you changed yours." Dean restlessly ran his hands over the wheel. "Sam, it's like we're strangers, now. What's going on?"

"Noth—"

"Shut up! It isn't nothing, obviously. I may not have graduated high school Sam, but I know a lie when you tell one!"

Sam cringed away, hunched against the door. A stiff silence fell in the Impala. Dean hated himself for losing his temper, and sighed. "Sammy, please. Why won't you talk to me?"

"Dad told me not to."

Dean threw him a sharp glance. "And you listened to him, why?"

"Dean, could you . . ." Sam hesitated, looking out the window into the passing night.

"What?" Dean's voice was softer than he intended, keen on getting any kind of foothold that he could with Sam.

"I promise I'll . . . I'll stay with you, Dean. I'm not leaving. But I can't . . . I can't tell you. Not yet."

Dean sighed, turning his eyes back o the road. "Sam. I'll go along with this. But you—you need to promise me that whatever happens, you'll stay safe."

Sam wasn't looking at him when he answered, "okay, I promise."

* * *

Dean kept them out of Dad's radius for a good week. Sure, Sam was quieter than usual, and Dean was on edge from avoiding Dad's calls, but it was almost like before, back on the road again.

All too soon, though, vacation was over, and they were brutally torn back into their world by Sam dropping down in the middle of the sidewalk, clutching his head.

"Sammy!"

Sam's face was twisted in anguish, pupils dilated, breath rapid and unsteady. Dean waited on tenterhooks for him to come back.

"D'n," Sam groaned, forehead falling into Dean's shoulder. "Gah."

"It's okay, Sammy, I know it hurts. C'mon, let's get into the car." Chest tight with worry, Dean maneuvered his brother up and forward at a slow shuffle. Sam fell into the passenger seat with another moan of pain, instantly leaning forward and clutching at his head.

"Pain pills," Dean said hurriedly, pulling them out and offering them to Sam. Sam took them.

"He's going to die," Sam whispered.

"Who?"

Sam screwed up his face. "I don't know. I saw he was . . . he had a gun, shot a man, shot himself. Death."

Dean flipped open his phone, only to see Sam flinch. Finger hovering over the call button, Dean frowned a little. "What?"

"Are you—who are you calling?"

"Dad," Dean said slowly. "Don't you think he should know?"

"Y-yeah."

With a twitch of his fingers, Dean snapped his phone closed. "Did you see anything to tell you where this guy is?"

Pain-filled eyes watched him warily. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good thing we won enough money to fill the gas tank, eh?" Dean revved the engine. He reached over and rested his hand on Sam's neck, unabashed about checking on his little brother. Sam was too out of it to call him on the gesture, so Dean squeezed gently, kneading the tight muscles until Sam was slumped against the seat.

"G'tta look up th' guy," Sam slurred.

"It isn't going to make a difference, dude. Sleep now, before I knock you out."

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched in slight amusement. Dean played dirty pool, slipping his hand into Sam's hair and combing through it, a sure thing to get Sam to sleep.

"Cheater," Sam mumbled, mouth running on as his brain began to quit.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean said lightly. He took his eyes off the road for a moment to check on Sam, hating the lines of pain around Sam's mouth and eyes. "Go to sleep, Sammy."

* * *

Sam was freaking. Dean was freaking. It was a freak fest all around, and Dean hated the wording of the thought once it plastered itself inside his brain. He glanced sideways at Sam, suddenly glad that Sam's psychic power didn't include mind reading.

"Sam, we've gotta get out of here," he muttered.

His brother was staring dully at Ansem's body. "Just like me," Dean heard, and that was quite enough of that. He yanked Sam over to the Impala, sparing a sympathetic glance for Andy.

"Dean—"

"Not a word, Sam." Sam had once made fun of Dean, comparing him to a sheepdog, who liked his flock safe, and Dean felt that way now, with his little flock of one. "Get in the car."

Sam obeyed, eyes glassy. Dean kept up a steady stream of curses under his breath; he was trying to focus on getting them out of there, but it was too easy to be distracted by Sam's radiating fear.

Somehow they managed to get back to the motel in one piece. Dean's skin felt too tight for his body.

"Do you think—" Sam started. Then he stopped. Dean felt his gut twist. Sam used to do that when he was a kid, start a sentence and never finish it. Whenever that happened, Dean always, always regretted not pushing him to finish; he would run away, he would be sick, he would get into fights.

"What, Sammy?" Dean asked.

His little brother wouldn't meet his eyes. "If he were ever . . . if I were to snap or—"

"No, Sam, hey." Dean took a few steps towards him, the promise of his presence, of being able to take care of Sam on his lips. But the distance and problems of the last few months whispered in his ear, and he hesitated. "Sammy," he said instead. "You—you have me. And I know you, kid. You're the best person I've ever known, and nothing could ever change that."

Sam finally looked up, and the stark terror in his eyes made Dean's breath catch.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Dean didn't want to ask why he was sorry. He swallowed, reaching up to grasp the side of Sam's face. "We're going to be fine," he promised.

* * *

 **A/N:** Oh those promises of being fine. Good luck with that, Dean. We're gearing up for the final few chapters, everyone! Thanks for sticking with :D


	8. Chapter 7

Sure, Dean had seen his dad upset before. This, though, this took upset to a whole new level. And, the worst part was that it was entirely directed at Sam. Dean had known how much his brother and father butt heads growing up, but if Dean had screwed up, then the blame had been equally distributed in his direction as well.

"C'mon, Dad, it was my idea," Dean finally interjected. "I made him come with me."

Dad didn't even spare him a glance.

"You don't need to cover for your brother, Dean." Dad wasn't able to tower over Sam the way he used to, but a sudden shove put Sam on the couch to put Sam below him. Dean thought of Max.

"Hey!" He darted forward, putting himself between the two of them. "I'm not lying, Dad, it was my idea. If you wanna punish anyone, punish me."

For a second, Dean couldn't read the expression in his father's eyes. Then it disappeared, and he saw frustration and weariness.

"Clean the guns. We have a hunt tomorrow," was all that he said before he was out the door.

It was hard not to curse. Dean curbed his tongue, looking down at Sam. His face was blank, hands limp by his side.

"Well, that was a jerk move," Dean said, voice too bright. "I vote we eat twinkies all night and—"

"We aren't kids anymore," Sam murmured. He got off the moldy couch and headed for the weapons bag.

With a sudden bang, the door to the motel flew open. Both of them flinched and went for their guns, only to see their dad come in.

"Geez, Dad, gave us a heart attack."

"I think I've finally made a decision," Dad said. "Dean, you're on your own. Sam, you're with me."

Dean gaped at him. "Wha—what are you talking about?"

Dad's eyes narrowed. "I've had to disown your brother before. I never thought it would come to this, but I'll do what I have to do. You're distracted, too concerned about yourself and your brother. You get your head on straight, and you can hunt with us again."

Dean gestured soundlessly. "Dad, what?"

"You heard me."

Dean almost opened his mouth to protest, but the careful, cagey look which Sam had on his face silenced him. He spit out, "fine," and threw his stuff in a bag. When Dad turned his back, Dean swept a considering look over his brother. This was not the end.

* * *

The Impala was conspicuous; Dean couldn't follow his family easily. What he could do, though, was wait in a cafe with internet, tracking Sam's phone. The two of them only went a state over. Once their dot had stopped moving for over half an hour, Dean set off, breaking quite a few speed limits along the way.

A little part of him was tempted to call Bobby, or maybe even Ellen, but Dean couldn't bring himself to do it.

The GPS signal was located on the edge of Memphis. Dean grimaced at the run-down streets. Sure, Dad had left them in some questionable places, but this was pretty much the ghetto. He was careful to park in a little bit of a nicer area before jogging in to the motel where his family was staying. Dad's truck stuck out like a sore thumb.

"You guys are asking to get mugged," Dean muttered. He circled the motel, kicking his way through some of the garbage to get to the window.

He breathed a sigh of relief; the window had no curtains, and Dean would easily be able to spy on the two of them.

Very carefully, he crouched next to the window, peering in while trying to keep out of sight. At first, he couldn't see anything. Dad's duffle was on the dresser, but he couldn't see either of them.

"Where did you put the shotgun?" Dad's voice was harsh.

"In the trunk."

Dean flinched at the sound of fist hitting flesh. He ducked under the window and edged around the other side. Dad and Sam came into view, next to the bed. Dean's gut twisted at the red mark on Sam's cheek. Dad had never . . . he had never hit them before. Why would he . . .

"You done screwing up?" Dad growled.

"Yessir."

Dad moved away, into the bathroom. Sam sagged against the wall, dropping to the floor. He kept his arm up at a weird angle, though, and when Dean looked a little closer, he nearly cursed aloud. Sam . . . Sam was handcuffed to the headboard. He nearly busted through the window right then and there, but restrained himself. Dad lumbered out of the room, saying "going out," succinctly to Sam. The instant he was gone, Dean could see how Sam slumped, head leaning against the wall.

* * *

He wasted no time. Dean pried open the window, forcing it up and crawling inside.

"Dean!" Sam's eyes were wide. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of here," he snarled. "Is Dad possessed? What's going on?"

Sam's face went white. "Dean, you can't interfere."

"Like hell, I can't!"

"Dean." Sam tried to step towards him, but the handcuffs stopped him. "Dean, you can't do anything. I'm doing this to protect you, okay?"

"Protect me from what?"

"From the demon."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean? It wasn't . . . you don't mean it's possessing Dad. Again?"

Sam's eyes were exhausted, despondent. "Yeah, Dean. It re-possessed him in the hospital."

Dean swore. He finally approached, taking out his lockpick set and kneeling next to Sam. His little brother, in increments, let his head fall to rest on Dean's shoulder as he worked.

"M'sorry I didn't tell you," he murmured. "I had to keep you safe."

"Yeah, well, we can talk about that later. What do we need to do to get rid of it?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head, hair brushing against Dean's arm. "Can't. I tried everything."

"Then we run."

"Can't. Dean, I made a deal with him."

Dean froze, staring at Sam. "You . . . you didn't."

Sam nodded. "I had to."

The handcuff clicked free. If not for the bruise on Sam's cheek, Dean would've hit the idiot himself. "Sam, what did you give up?"

"I can't tell you."

"Go figure," Dean snarled. "Well, screw that, you're coming with me, and we're breaking the deal."

For the first time in a while, Dean saw a spark of angry defiance in Sam's eyes.

"No!" He yanked his arm away from Dean. "I break my deal, you die. That's not going to happen."

Dean grabbed Sam's shoulders, a little roughly. "What am I supposed to do here, Sam? Huh?"

Sam sighed, cupping Dean's face in his hands. "You have to trust me. It will be over soon, anyway."

"That sounds ominous," Dean muttered.

Sam's face was set and determined. "It isn't."

"I'll be watching. And I swear, if anything happens, I'm going to stop it," Dean promised.

"I suppose that's all I can ask." Sam re-cuffed his own hand. "Get out of here, before he gets back."

From the sympathetic expression on Sam's face, he could tell how much Dean hated everything about the situation.

"You owe me a million pies for this," he grouched.

Sam's smile was tiny, but enough to relieve Dean's fears . . . a little. "Go on," he urged.

Dean obeyed. Reluctantly.

* * *

 **A/N:** I pinkie promise that I'll answer reviews on the final few chapters! I've been terrible thru this fic, apologies.

Anyway, hopefully most of you didn't see this coming . . . I really had a hard time deciding whether I would make John go off the rails or have him be possessed again. The anti-John me definitely wanted the first, but for the story it made more sense to go with the latter. Hopefully you guys think it works too :)


	9. Chapter 8

Dean became James Bond.

Okay, he was already pretty much Jame Bond, but with binoculars in hand and the highest tech listening devices possible planted in his Dad's truck, he felt like he could be a spy. Minus the suits, those were uncomfortable and unpractical.

Static came through the receiver, punctuated by the demon's inane comments about things on the road or the crappy drivers. Sam was mostly silent, though he responded a few times; Dean had the idea that it was because he knew Dean was listening and wanted to reassure him.

Dean adjusted the dial a little as John's voice turned a little harsh. "You have three more days."

"I never agreed to do anything in three days," Sam returned coolly. "That wasn't part of the deal."

Despite the terrible reception, the sound of fist hitting flesh came through. Dean gripped the steering wheel until it felt like he was going to snap it in half.

"You will give in. I promise you that."

"Don't count on it," Sam returned.

Dean did his best to grit his teeth and keep on driving.

Sam's next comment put his heart into his throat. "Uh, why are we pulling off at a graveyard?"

"Like I would actually give you the precise date of my plan. Or did you think I didn't notice the research you were doing on the side?"

Dean's older brother alarms were going off full tilt. He let the speedometer creep up past 80 mph, past 90 mph.

There was a shout. The sounds of a scuffle, grunts of pain. And then the truck's door slamming. And silence.

"Sammy!"

* * *

By the time Dean caught up with Sam and the yellow-eyed demon, something in the Impala was rattling and he was running on the fumes of coffee and energy bars, but nothing could stop him. He was pretty sure if he hadn't slapped mud over the plates he would've been tagged and stopped by now.

Sam always used to swear that he could smell a cemetery from a mile away, and Dean always made fun of him. Now, stepping out of the Impala into the damp soil, Dean's stomach turned at the miasmic smell. He grabbed the shotgun—the only weapon available since Dad had insisted on being the one to hold onto the colt—and strode off, following the tracks left. One walking body. One . . . being dragged.

The sound of his father's voice, raised in anger against Sam, was familiar. Something in Dean felt a little sick at the familiarity. Something had been wrong for a lot longer than before the demon had possessed his father. Dean just hadn't seen it.

Sam cried out. Dean darted forward, dodging behind a tombstone just before the demon could see him.

Sam was tied up at the foot of a mausoleum, blood staining his shirt. As Dean watched, he coughed weakly, twisting slightly.

"I won't let you," he snarled; his snarl was more of a slight whisper.

"You don't have a choice in the matter." It took everything in him not to leap out of hiding as the demon picked Sam up off the ground, hefting him onto some kind of makeshift table. Sam writhed in his grasp, prompting him to punch him. Again, and again. Dean had nearly made up his mind to go for it when he stopped.

"Now, Sam, this will go a lot easier for you if you submit." Their dad's figure was menacing in the way it hovered over Sam's prone body. "Drink the blood willingly, and the pain can end."

Sam didn't answer—too out of it, or refusing by silence, Dean couldn't tell.

"Fine."

The yellow-eyed demon held up a vial of something. It leaned over Sam, one hand on Sam's chin to force his mouth open.

Dean sprinted out from behind the tombstone, raising his shotgun and blasting the demon. Diving for Sam, he was abruptly waylaid, telekinesis pulling him against the mausoleum. Dean snarled, pushing helplessly against the invisible bonds.

"I wish I could say this was a surprise, but you Winchesters are so predictable." The demon's eyes flashed yellow, grin twisting its lips.

"You are going to pay," Dean swore.

"All talk, no follow-through." The demon rested a hand casually against Sam's front—at the touch, Sam writhed, broken moan issuing from his lips.

"Don't touch him!" Dean yelled.

"It's actually perfect timing." Dean was pulled forward and slammed down onto the table next to Sam. "You are the perfect persuasive tool."

Dean bared his teeth. "Go to hell."

The yellow-eyed demon ignored him, focused on Sam. "C'mon, kiddo—" corrupting the name their dad had once used for them, "—you know the drill. Swear loyalty, or brother gets it."

The demon wasn't paying attention to Dean. He was able to edge his hand a little, trailing it through the blood on Sam's shirt, and the blood dripping from the demon's shotgun wound.

"Pater, fratres, familia et sanguine," he murmured. "Pater, fratres, familia et sanguine, pater, fratres, familia et sanguine."

"Cute, but that won't do anything," the yellow-eyed demon said coldly.

"Oh, I think it will." Dean sat up, pulling Sam with him. "You chose a host that's related to us by blood. You're vulnerable."

John's face twisted in an unpleasant scowl. "You think you're so clever?"

Dean hadn't been able to get far enough. The demon leaped forward, snatching Sam from his arms. Dean may have neutered his ability to use demonic TK, but his physical body was still present and deadly.

"Undo it, or I will snap his neck," it snarled.

"Okay, okay." Dean swallowed, watching meaty fingers tighten on Sam's throat. "I'll undo it. I need blood—yours and Sam's."

The demon let go of Sam to reach for a knife on the table.

The gunshot made Dean yell, terrified that somehow the demon had a gun and he'd missed it.

But instead, there was Sam, pointing the colt at the body of their father, bullet hole sparking yellow with the demon's death.

For a second, Dean was frozen. All he could see was his father, blank eyes staring. He had once asked Sam not to shoot. And that had ended terribly, but even so he had still felt glad that his entire family was alive.

Sam was lurching away. Dean stared at him walking away, but he couldn't make himself move.

"Sam," he managed.

There was a rasping breath from the demon's bod—his dad's body. Dean stumbled over, staring down at John Winchester.

"Dad?" he whispered.

"D'n." John coughed, blood staining his lips. "Sorry. Couldn't . . . sorry."

"Shh." Dean went into auto-pilot, falling to his knees and pressing on the wound. "We're gonna be fine, c'mon, Dad, you're too tough to let one little bullet kill you, right?"

John's eyes were glazing over. "M'boys. S'rry," he slurred.

The blood flowing between Dean's fingertips slowed. Dean dropped his head with a sob.

A whimper caused him to refocus, turning to see Sam stumbling backwards.

"No," he mumbled. "Killed him. Have to . . . go."

Dean's numb limbs finally moved, in enough time to get to Sam before he collapsed.

"Easy," he crooned. "It'll be okay." He looked over at their dad's body and shuddered. "It'll be okay," he lied again.

* * *

 **A/N:** Only the epilogue remains, so pretty much I could cap this with "the end"! As I've said before, this isn't my favorite thing I've ever written, but it did the job of getting my rusty spn fic skills up and working again (sort of). Sooo I have decided that following this fic, I'm going to do another prompt fic! Be on the lookout for it soon, I'll post it once I finish the epilogue for this story and get it up. Thanks for reading guys :)


	10. Epilogue

"How . . . how'd you get the Colt?"

"I guess, uh, demons follow some of the habits of their hosts. He kept it tucked in his belt at his back. Like Dad." Sam refused to look at him, hunched over on himself as Dean worked on stitching up the cuts that littered his body—persuasive tools, Sam had told him.

Sam flinched as the needle went in again, and Dean shushed him softly.

"What was he really trying to get you to do?" he asked. It was cruel, to interview Sam while Sam couldn't leave, but Dean figured this was the only way to get it all out in the open.

"I—I . . . the reason I have visions is that the demon fed me his blood when I was a baby." Sam hissed a little as Dean pulled the stitches tight. "Um, he wanted to activate the rest of my powers. Something about a demon army, making me lead it."

Dean swore softly, mopping up the leftover blood and smoothing a bandage over his stitches. "Just when you think things can't get any crazier," he muttered.

Sam's eyes flicked over to him, something unreadable in their depths. "That's it?"

Dean frowned. "What?"

"I killed Dad. I have demon blood in me. I'm . . . tainted."

"Sammy," Dean breathed. He turned Sam's hand over so he could wipe away the blood on it. "That doesn't matter. Winchester blood trumps demon blood any day."

Sam swallowed, ducking his head away again. Dean allowed him a slight respite from the barrage of questions, focusing on patching his little brother up.

Before he released him, Dean couldn't help but ask, "Sam, I have to know. When did you find out that Dad was possessed?"

"Th-the hunt in Nebraska. Before we met at the Roadhouse."

Dean's stomach did a funny swoop. "Before that. The, uh, bruises, you taking every beatdown Dad threw at you. Why—"

"Why was I weak enough to let him?" Sam snapped. "Because you had nearly died, Dean! And I knew you, and you were thinking I would leave again, and I didn't want to . . ." his voice trailed off into a mumble.

"Want to what?"

"Let you down," Sam whispered.

Dean, in shock, wasn't able to reach out in time to keep Sam from shoving away, off the now-bloody bed and towards the bathroom.

"Sam!"

The bathroom door shut in his face.

"Sammy!" He banged on it. "Open up!"

There was no response. Dean leaned his forehead against the peeling paint and sighed. He'd dropped the ball on the big brother gig in the past months, but he still knew his brother enough to know that Sam was beating himself up over everything—not knowing Dad was possessed, making the deal, having to kill their father.

"Sammy," he said softly. "I don't blame you. For any of it."

There was a sound that was suspiciously like a sniff, and Dean felt his eyes burn at the thought of Sam crying alone in the bathroom. "Sammy, let me in. Please."

The door slowly opened. Dean slid inside, gathering his brother into his arms as soon as he was able to.

"I don't blame you," he repeated. "And I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner. You've been all alone in this fight."

Sam's tears slid down Dean's neck, and Dean bit his lip.

"I c-couldn't tell you, Dean I wanted to, I swear," he cried.

"Shhhh." He slowly herded them back into the room, settling Sam down on the blood-free bed. "It's okay."

"I killed Dad," Sam sobbed. "I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry."

Dean's protests to the contrary fell on deaf ears. Blood loss, coupled with grief, eventually wore Sam down so he fell asleep on Dean's snot and tear-stained shoulder. Dean stayed awake the entire night, holding onto Sam as if it could make up for all of his mistakes.

* * *

Dean glanced over at Sam. "D'you wanna say something?" he asked.

Sam shook his head, staring at the fire.

Dean cleared his throat, turning back to the funeral pyre. "I'm sorry we couldn't save you, Dad," he finally said. "You could be a real . . . jerk at times, but you did your best by us."

Sam suddenly turned on his heel, walking away from the fire. Dean glanced at their dad's remains one more time before jogging after him.

Once he was abreast of him, Dean reached out, tugging at Sam's elbow until his little brother stopped.

"Sam. You . . . you okay?"

Sam seemed too numb to even make fun of Dean for asking such a stupid question.

"Where are we going next?" he asked.

Dean couldn't look at Sam for this part. He turned back to see the glow of fire through the trees. "Um, well, are you going back?"

"Back where?" Instead of his dead monotone, there was a spark of confusion in Sam's voice. Dean would take it.

"California. Stanford." He didn't look back. "I know you want to."

Sam made a weird choking sound—probably the only thing that could've gotten Dean to look at him, since he had to check that Sam wasn't actually choking.

"You friggin' idiot," Sam snarled. "After all we've been through . . . did you think I was lying? I'm in this with you, Dean."

Dean frowned. "You're just saying that 'cause of what happened with Dad."

Sam gestured expansively. "Dean, look what happened when I nearly lost you! I couldn't handle it, okay? How can you expect me to be able to go off to college again, after all of this?"

It took him a moment to form his response. "You've always decided your own path. It didn't matter, before, when you left."

There was anguish in Sam's eyes. "Dean, it was torture, going to Stanford without you. I spent the first year scanning every street for the Impala, going to bars just to see if I could find you there."

Sam's confession settled the part of Dean that still hovered in old pain and hurt from Sam's departure and seeming indifference. Still . . . "So what, you are okay with hunting again? All your talk of having a normal life . . .?"

Sam's mouth twisted. "After what happened to Jess . . . the blood in me . . . that isn't me anymore, Dean."

Dean was selfish enough not to argue any longer, letting the night lapse into silence. The crackling of the fire and crickets chirping were the only sounds.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "We better watch the fire to make sure it doesn't spread," he muttered.

"Sure, Smokey bear."

Sam scowled.

Dean took a deep breath. "Could you hear Dad? When he died?"

Sam's expression closed off. "No, not really."

"He said he was sorry. To both of us. Just thought you should know."

Sam nodded tightly. Dean waited a moment, and then reached out, slapping Sam's shoulder.

"C'mon, dude. Let's clean up here and go get stinkin' drunk. We're allowed."

Sam seemed to tighten up. "At a bar?"

Dean thought of vulnerability and people around them and grimaced. "Nah, let's just swing by a liquor store and get drunk watching Next Generation. We can make a game of drinking every time Picard says 'make it so.'"

"And you call me the nerd," Sam mumbled.

Dean spluttered, catching the slight smile on Sam's solemn face. "I am not the nerd, you are," he returned lamely.

"I am slain by your wit."

Dean nearly missed Sam's next comment, it was so quiet.

"Are we . . . okay?"

"Not to make this a complete chick flick, but yeah, Sammy." Dean gripped the scruff his little brother's neck like a pup. "We'll always be okay. Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam returned. Some of the tightness in Sam's shoulders drained away. Dean would take what he could get.

* * *

 **A/N:** Normally I would've ended last chapter, since to me that is the best place to wrap things up, but I couldn't just leave some questions unanswered, so here's an awkward epilogue.

Also, confession, I'm pretty sure I got that "winchester blood trumps demon blood." from another fic but I couldn't figure out which fic or if I had actually stolen it or not. If you know where it came from, let me know and I'll credit immediately.

Whew, anyway, it's over! A whole lot of you commented at the beginning, so I'd love to hear from you know and what you think about where the fic went-what I did well, what I could do better, all that jazz. Thanks for reading! And look out for a prompt fic in the near future . . . get your prompts ready!


End file.
